


Deck the Halls However You See Fit

by Yuliares



Series: All Is Well at 221 Baker St [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Fluff, F/M, M/M, Mary Ships It, Multi, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuliares/pseuds/Yuliares
Summary: Relaxed domestic holiday fluff. In a nebulous future where John and Mary move in downstairs after Mrs. Hudson retires, the gang preps for their annual Christmas party in 221B Baker Street.Written for the 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge for the prompts "More the Merrier" and "Lights".
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: All Is Well at 221 Baker St [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587844
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	Deck the Halls However You See Fit

The scape of something along the floor and dull thud prompted John to climb the stairs, where the door to 221B was open, as it often was these days. Sherlock was standing on a chair in his pajamas, fulfilling his “tallest resident” obligation of stringing Christmas lights along the top of the walls.

“Sherlock,” John asked, tilting his head, “Are those steak knives?”

“We’re not serving steak,” Sherlock said, looping the string of lights around a wooden handle. “They were available.”

There was a pause, and then Sherlock turned slightly to meet John’s gaze. “Problem?”

John pulled a breath in, and slowly let it out.

The winter sun was bright in the window, the living area slightly cluttered, but clean. Mary’s basket of yarn leaning against the couch. His uneven stack of what she called ‘John’s literature’, a mix of ratty crime novels, glossy medical magazines, and a week’s worth of old newspapers that he just never got around to throwing away.

Sherlock on the dining room chair, bathrobe pockets bulging with steak knives, looking down at him.

Waiting for his reply.

“No, no problem.” said John. “Do you need help?”

~

They had finished up and were relaxing in their chairs by the time Mary arrived home, laden with the crocheted grocery bags she insisted on using.

“Hello! I’m back!” Mary called, and began climbing the stairs. “Sherlock, I couldn’t find the exact brand of ammonia you wanted, so I didn’t get any at all.”

“Yes, fine,” groaned Sherlock. “That’s two supermarkets without," he complained to John.

“Can’t you just buy it online?” asked John, getting up to help Mary. A packet of celery was already half-way to escape through a particularly large crochet hole.

Sherlock made a face. “I don’t want to pay shipping.”

“So what have you boys been up to?” asked Mary, grabbing at the cans spilling out on the table and lining them along the counter. One didn’t have to be a consulting detective to see that white bean chili was on the party menu.  
“I helped Sherlock hang the lights,” said John.

“Did you, now! I found another tin of them in the basement—do you think we could hang them in the stairwell?” Mary asked, now pulling an obscene assortment of crackers from the large, lumpy orange bag. She loved making those ridiculous little appetizers.

“No good,” called Sherlock, still in his chair. “We’re out of knives.”

“What?” said Mary, and John couldn’t help but laugh and point her to the living room.

She even stood in the center and did a full turn-around to get the full effect.

“Well,” she said finally, her hands on her hips. “I do think this is the first time we’ve put those to use. Still not sure why anyone thought thirty steak knives was a good wedding gift. Who even gave us-”

John coughed. “My father.”

“Ah. Right,” she said. “Very nice knives.”

“They’re dull,” said Sherlock, shoving himself out of his chair before abruptly stopping. “Who put a santa hat on my skull?”

“John,” Mary said. “Grab the table clothes from downstairs?”

John quickly moved towards the stairs. “On it, my dear!”

“My skull is not a decoration!” Sherlock called after him, brandishing the offending headgear, and Mary’s laughter followed after him.

When he came back up with the bin, Sherlock had started some water boiling. Probably part of his plan to make fake peas that tasted and looked like… peas? John wasn’t sure he understood, but it sounded complicated and Sherlock had promised not to poison them.

“We’ll put the main dishes on the kitchen table, of course,” Mary was saying, “And what about desserts?”

“Table back by the window worked well last year,” John said, and shot Sherlock a smile.

Sherlock scowled at him, and turned back to the thermometer. Last year, John had told him it was very kind of him to arrange the desserts in caloric order for his brother, and Sherlock had gotten huffy and insisted that had nothing to do with it, and Mycroft had probably broken the diet for the holidays anyways—not that he cared to know, or cared at all.

“We could probably wind the lights through the bannister,” said John. “No need for more knives, we can use the zipties Sherlock bought for that kidnapping reenactment.”

“Yes!” said Mary, and gave him a quick kiss. “You know, I think this party is going to be our best one yet.”

“Obviously,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes. “Where’s my gelatin?”


End file.
